


The Sixty-fourth Sentinel Tidbits File by Many and Varied

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: The Senad Sentinel Tidbits Files by Many and Varied [64]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Senslash Fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:24:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist





	The Sixty-fourth Sentinel Tidbits File by Many and Varied

## The Sixty-fourth Sentinel Tidbits File

by Many and Varied

Author's disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, these tidbits aren't mine. Honestly, I'm not responsible for any of it!  


* * *

Rating: the whole range  
Pairings: J/B (mostly!) 

* * *

Tidbit #1 

ObSenad: 

"No way! No fucking way!" 

Jim rolled over in bed and glanced at the clock. 12:30am. He heard Blair's heart racing and angry exclamations from below. "Chief?" he called, plodding down the stairs. "You okay?" 

Blair whirled on him. "No. I. Am. Not. Okay!" he snapped. He chopped a hand at the tv. "Just look at that!" 

Jim rubbed his eyes. "Oh, it's that Billy Blanks guy. Tae Bo or whatever. An infomercial." He yawned and plopped down on the couch. 

"Yes, Jim, an infomercial," Blair planted his hands on his hips and glared down at his Sentinel lover, who was clearly not getting it. "An infomercial. Now. At 12:30." 

Jim leaned his head on his arm. "Mmm hmmm." 

Blair exploded. "12:30 is when The Watchman is supposed to be on! Supposed to be a really good episode, too, so I stayed up and now --" English became a second language as outrage overwhelmed intellect. "Dirty sons of-mother- syphillitic-low-down-" Blair sputtered, unable to find anything bad enough to cover this offense. 

"But your friend is taping it for you, right?" Jim mumbled. "And it'll be shown in reruns, right?" 

Blair rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but everyone on the list is talking about it _NOW_ , and you know me. Can't let anything pass without comment." 

"You're opinionated," Jim translated. 

"I prefer to think I have a healthy set of debate skills," Blair said loftily. "Man, this was supposed to have some great moments between the big guy and little guy, with..Jim? Jim?" 

No reply from the snoring Sentinel. Blair looked down at Jim, looking vulnerable and gorgeous, sound asleep with his head on his arm. Suddenly, he realized that there were more important things in life than some tv show, and one of them was sleeping peacefully just a foot away. 

Carefully so as not to wake him, Blair snuggled up to Jim and kissed his cheek. "Sleep well, lover," he whispered. 

-end- 

Tex  


* * *

Tidbit #2 

ObSenad: 

Unwashed, unshaven, and hung over, Newt Call slouched on a bench, watching the stagecoach clatter down the muddy main street of Curtis Wells. Sweat lathered the coats of the horses. The driver had a bloody rag wrapped around his left arm. There'd been trouble out on the trail, Call reckoned. Maybe someone had robbed the stage. Or maybe some of the Lakota braves who'd gone on the rampage lately had attacked it. 

A small group swiftly gathered around the vehicle, calling out questions. Colonel Mosby sauntered out of the hotel to join Sheriff Austin Peale in interrogating the driver. Call wasn't very curious about much these days, especially after a hard night's drinking at the unsavory bar he frequented. But he didn't have anything better to do, so he got to his feet, automatically checking the set of his gun belt, and ambled over to join the others. 

The stagecoach driver, a thick-necked burly man in his early forties, looked mightily unhappy about being grilled by both the sheriff and Curtis Well's leading citizen. It was really Austin's business, but then Austin was in the Colonel's pocket. Mosby figured that he owned the town, Call knew. He'd be sure to ferret out all the details of the attack. Maybe he'd round up a posse to go after the robbers. Call didn't care, as long as he kept out of his way. Someday, there'd be an accounting between them, but he was in no particular hurry. 

On that day, Mosby would die. 

Meanwhile, Call was content to hover on the outskirts of the small crowd gathered around the stage and listen. 

" -- thought we was dead fer sure," the driver confided, wiping his hand across his homely features and smearing the dust that layered him from head to foot. "But then that young fella over there," he gestured, "he jumped off the stage and started jabbering away at them Injuns just like he knew 'em. The leader was a big buck with war paint on his face and pale blue eyes. Musta been a half-breed. He trotted his horse right up to this fella. I thought he was a goner. But -- I tell you, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't of believed it -- that red savage started jabberin' back at him. Don't ask me what they palavered about. I don't savvy Injun talk. But after maybe ten minutes, the Injun reached down his hand. Damned if the young fella didn't take it, like they was brothers or somethin'. Then the whole band turned their horses 'round and rode off. I reckoned they meant to kill us. Still don't know why they give it up. Kid's not much to look at; kinda short, too pretty by half if you ask me, and he don't even wear a gun." 

Call drifted closer, his interest piqued. 

Mosby turned and walked over to one of the passengers assisting in unloading the baggage, a young man dressed in Eastern style, with shoulder-length hair pulled back into a ponytail. With his impeccable courtesy, the Colonel said, "On behalf of the citizens of Curtis Wells, I'd like to thank you, Mr. --?" 

"Sandburg," said the passenger, flushing slightly. Call's eyes widened a little. Too pretty by half didn't begin to cover it. Even the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the uptilted nose didn't detract from his comeliness. Call felt a stirring of interest he hadn't experienced (not sober, at any rate) since Hannah died. "Professor Blair Sandburg, of Harvard University." 

\--end-- 

Brenna 

* * *

Tidbit #3 

ObSenad: 

Blair squirmed in Jim's arms, too excited to sit still. Resignedly, the Sentinel let him go and he started bouncing on the sofa. 

"Come on, Chief," he said tolerantly. "You've seen this episode how many times now?" 

"Five, but it's, like, so cool, man!" 

"You just like this one because the anthropologist gets to save the day." 

"Yeah, man, isn't it great?" Blair enthused. "God, I love this show. Great characters, great plots, and the anthropologist is so smart, he comes up with solutions no-one else can think of. Go, Daniel, go!" he encouraged his on-screen hero. 

The Sentinel's eyes rested fondly on his mate. "You come up with ideas no-one else has, too, Chief." 

"You mean, I'm more to you than just Phoneboy?" Blair twinkled. 

"You're more to me than anyone or anything else on this planet," said Jim seriously. 

Wide blue eyes turned to his face, and what they saw there seemed to satisfy them. "Oh, man, Jim," said Blair in an awed voice. "You really mean that, don't you?" 

A large hand threaded itself through Blair's wild curls, pulling him into a kiss that ignited his blood. Breaking for air at last, Jim said gently, "Does that answer your question?" 

Blair fumbled for the remote and turned off the television. The adventures of Daniel Jackson and the SG-1 team could wait until later. 

He and his Sentinel had more important things to do. 

<finis>

Brenna  


* * *

Tidbit #4 

ObSenad: 

"Hey, Jim!" Blair bounced into the PD carrying a big bouquet of balloons. 

"What in the world? Who is having a birthday?" Jim stared up at the goofy metallic balloons and at his mate for an explanation. 

"Naomi! And guess what?" Blair grinned, happy beyond belief. 

Jim held his head in his hands and quaked inwardly. "What, Sandburg?" 

"She's coming here to the PD! I told her that you had something to ask her," Blair's eyes twinkled as he looked down at the detectives bowed head. 

"What? What do I need to ask her?" Jim looked up, confused. 

"Jim! I'm hurt! You ask me to marry you, but don't want to ask permission from my parent?" Blair's eyes shone. 

Just then, the force of nature known as Naomi Sandburg breezed into the bullpen, smiling, heading straight for Jim's desk. Jim looked at her, then back at his lover, and promptly fainted. 

<bg> END! 

Bast  


* * *

Tidbit #5 

ObSenad: "Gift of the Magi" 

A Short Story by Ismaro. 

Post date: March 6, 1999. 

Claimer: They do belong to me. They do, they do, they do. They also belong to you, and to the world at large. They have passed into the hands of their adoring public by the process of sublimation, and have taken up residence in our ecstatic subliminal minds. 

[Send now for your copy of our free pamphlet: "Obfuscation: A Way of Life."] 

Disclaimer: Okay, okay, I'll let Pet Fly have them. UPN? Well, really, do they want them? 

Humour. Pre-slash. Either G or R depending on how you read the bad pun. More or less a View from the Bullpen sub-category. 

Bad Pun Alert! 

Also a Get Well short story. 

* * *

**GIFT OF THE MAGI**

It was a slow day at Major Crimes. 

The elegantly tall man leaned over the gorgeous, shorter one seated at the desk. A big hand clamped down on the shoulder below. 

"Much more to go, Chief?" 

"Paperwork's done, Jim." The shorter man looked into the beaming blue topaz eyes of his partner at the Cascade P.D. and smiled back fondly, his own sapphire eyes agleam as he hit 'save' with one long, strong finger stroke and logged off. 

"No date tonight?" asked Ellison, his handsome face hopeful about an answer. 

"Nah, Delilah called it off. Flu." 

Jim smiled more broadly. "Okay, you've earned yourself dinner, Sandburg. My treat." 

"Japanese? Yes!" A fist pumped the air victoriously. 

The big man tousled the seated man's fractious curls, and his hand was batted away with mock anger and mischief. 

Six pairs of eyes watched closely as Sandburg and Ellison left together, the former chattering briskly about inconsequentials and slightly ahead of the latter, but guided at the small of his back by that same big hand belonging to his silently attentive friend. 

When the elevator doors had dinged shut, Simon grunted, "Those two are never gonna get on the clue bus." 

"Never gonna buy a vowel," chimed in someone else. 

"Never gonna find Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick." 

Everyone turned to stare at Henri. 

"Whaaaat? I loved that game." 

"Sandburg must be rubbing off on you," Simon muttered. 

"Yeah, but it's not H, Sandburg should be rubbing off on," was someone else's strangled opinion. 

It's a good thing it was a slow day at Major Crimes. 

"Rhonda!" Simon yipped at last, still not quite able to bark. 

"Yes, Captain?" 

"What's the pool stand at now?" 

"As of last Friday, $8,943.47," Rhonda calmly informed him. 

Now everyone was staring at Simon's secretary. 

"How the hell," Simon bit around the shreds of tobacco from the cigar he had just macerated in shock, "did what we put into the pool three years ago grow into THAT MUCH MONEY?" 

"I invested it," Rhonda said, with great satisfaction. 

"What kind of investment yields more than a thousand per cent interest over three years?" 

"The Triple Stakes, for example." 

"You bet the pool on the ponies?" Rafe yelled. 

"Hey," Rhonda defended herself, "I asked Blair for advice." 

Heads started nodding. That made sense. The fund was safe with Blair picking the nags. 

"How many of us are in it?" Simon asked quietly, a trifle bitterly. (Sandburg apparently had not suggested backing Little Stogie at any time.) 

"Just us six." The circle included Simon, Henri, Rafe, Joel, Megan and Rhonda herself. "Too bad, though: Naomi wanted in but couldn't come up with the grubstake." 

"Hmmm," everyone hummed sympathetically. Blair's mother was the original flower child and probably could have used the money if she'd picked the right date. Or donated it to save head lice from total extinction. 

"The kid's birthday's coming up." Simon sounded meditative. 

"I sure could use a thousand bucks," Joel mentioned. 

"Me, too," came from Henri, Rafe and Rhonda, while Megan added, "Mate" to the end of her endorsement. 

"And it's his thirtieth," Rhonda reminded everyone. 

"Big day," was Henri's aside. 

"He's worked hard," noted Megan. 

"Taken a lot of knocks." Rafe was impressed. 

"Saved us all daily from the Wrath of Ellison," Joel clinched things. 

"You don't know the half of it." Simon nodded with grim secrecy. 

Six pairs of eyes looked around at each other. 

"What if we collapse the fund and give Sandburg a birthday present he'll never forget?" The Captain suggested. 

Everyone nodded, eyes glazing with glee. 

"Yeah, but what," Henri asked, bewildered. 

"Henri!" Rafe protested, nudging his partner in the ribs. 

"Are you sure you're a detective, Detective?" Simon roared. 

"There's only one gift Blair wants," Joel prompted. 

"Blair deserves," Simon said darkly. 

"Blair needs," Rhonda gushed, "like a bongo needs a drummer," then blushed furiously for the first time since she had turned thirteen. 

"What?" Henri whined, utterly clueless despite childhood games. 

"JIM!" screamed a soprano, an alto, a tenor, a baritone and a bass musically. Or not. 

"The gift that keeps on giving, H." Rafe took pity on his partner. 

"And getting," Megan sighed. 

"Ahhhh," everyone sighed with her as they thought about just what Jim Ellison was going to be getting. In slo-mo. And glorious technicolour. 

The office was empty in a heartbeat as everyone suddenly remembered a reason for having to be totally alone for the next ten minutes. 

Yes, it was a very good thing it was a slow day at Major Crimes. 

-fini-  


* * *

Tidbit #6 

ObSenad: 

"AAAarrrrrgggghhh!!!" 

The wordless shout of rage and slamming door drew Jim from the balcony, where he had been watching the sunset. 

"Blair? What's wrong?" 

"Jim, I swear, this has been, like, the absolutely _worst_ day of my life! Ever!" 

Blinking, Jim looked over his Guide. Shaving cut on his neck, limp...hmmm. "Wanna tell me what happened?" 

Blair sighed, a huge, gusty exhalation of frustration. "Sure, man, just let me get changed out of these jeans and get a beer first." 

"I'll get the beer, you get changed." 

Tossing Jim a tired smile, Blair disappeared into his room. Muffled banging and thumping noised ensued. Reappearing after a few moment, Blair grinned at Jim, grabbing the offered beer and settling down on the couch. 

"Well, it started this morning..." 

Jim grinned. "I noticed that. What did you fall over?" 

Blair snorted. "The night stand. I have a huge bruise, too." 

Jim's eyes twinkled. "Want me to kiss it better?" he joked. 

Blair blinked at him. "Gee, Jim...don't you think that's outside the 'blessed protector' role?" 

"No...just saving you from vicious bedroom furniture. The rest is negotiable." 

Blair was quiet for a moment, looking at Jim with a odd expression. "So, ah, well...then I get into the shower, and nearly cut my throat shaving..." 

Jim nodded. "Noticed that too." 

Blair swatted Jim. "Are you telling this? No? Ok then..." Taking a swig of his beer, he continued. 

"And then, man, I go in to the University, and I have to go get this paperwork, only it's at the regional office, which is, like, two hours away...of course, when I get there, these "so-important" forms take five minutes to fill out..." Blair's arms were getting more and more agitated. When one sweeping gesture nearly baptized Jim with beer, he held up a hand. 

"Calm down there, Chief." 

"Sorry. So anyway, then I get back, and my email won't work, so I spend two hours trying to figure out why it's not working, then _bam_ the problem disappears and it's working again." 

"Well, Sandburg, sounds like you've had a terrible day." 

"Yeah, ya think?" Blair's tone was sarcastic. 

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, then Jim turned to the smaller figure sprawled on the couch next to him. 

"Hey, Chief? Why don't you come over here and let me make it _all_ better?" 

Blair blinked. //Well, _hell_. Who knew?// 

Grinning, he settled himself in Jim's lap and looked into those baby blues. "Kiss me, you fool." 

The END  <g>

Rusty  


* * *

Tidbit #7 

ObSenad: 

"Hey Jim, do you know if anyone can get copies of the show we like so much?" 

"Which show, Blair, "The Watchman"?" 

"Yeah, I have a friend who is a new member on the list and she only started to watch the show last season when she followed that actor from "The Scotsman" over. She kind of feels a little lost right now and would like a set of tapes on the whole show. She'd be willing to pay to cover the cost of tapes and all." 

"I don't know of anyone, maybe you could post a request for her on the list. I'm sure someone there might be able to help." 

"You know that's why I love you, Jim. You can always find the obvious remedy that I over look." 

"Yeah, well, let me show you why I love you, Chief." 

"What now? But I want to send the post. Jim, come on, man, be serious; can't you just wait a minute or two? " 

"No, I can't and I won't." 

"Oh. Well, in that case, she's on her own, man. Come ahead." (pun intended) 

\--end-- 

Victoria  


* * *

Tidbit #8 

ObSenad: 

"I just can't believe it. I know the weather is terrible. I don't give a damn. Stop shrinking the screen. I want to watch my show." 

"What's the matter, Chief?" Jim asked, smiling at his partner's indignation. 

"It's not bad enough that our favorite show gets pre-empted to Saturday night instead of Monday, but then there's this huge storm and they insist on shrinking the screen every twenty minutes to let us know." Blair snorted. "You can just look out the window and see that the weather is bad. Jerks! Now I don't have a clean copy of the episode. Do you know how hard it is to see what's going on when the screen is about half the size it's supposed to be?" 

"I'm not having a problem, Chief." Jim smirked, knowing what was going to come next. 

"Of course you're not, Super Eyes, but some of us aren't so lucky." 

"Just get on the list and ask someone to send you a clean copy. I'm sure that there are a few folks that'll help." 

-finis- 

Beth  


* * *

Tidbit #9 

Obsenad: 

"You're not gonna believe this one, Jim," Blair commented, leaning closer to his lover, keeping his voice low. 

Jim let out a long-suffering sigh. It was bad enough to have the flu and be stuck waiting in the doctor's office half the day, but to have to sit with your male partner while he thumbed through "Cosmopolitan" was the ultimate indignity. 

"Do you have to read that?" 

"The Newsweek's outdated, and I already read the National Geographic at home. It says here that some woman magnified her husband's orgasm by _five times_ by stimulating his prostate with her pinky while they had sex." 

"Her _pinky_??" Jim repeated, drawing a few strange looks from the other patients. 

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing, man. If she can do that with her pinky, I wanna see the rest of her fingers!!" Both men laughed then, leaving the other patients to draw their own conclusions. 

-the end- 

Candy  


* * *

Tidbit #10 

ObSenad: 

Firelight flickered in the loft, shadows jumping and bouncing with the rise and fall of the flames. Jim sat on the chair next to the fireplace and his lover and partner, Blair, sat on the floor between his legs. 

Jim's hands moved rhythmically, up and down. As he stroked, Blair made soft contented noises, sighing his pleasure. This was an evening ritual for them. 

Blair's hair gleamed in the soft light and each time the brush bristles passed through the tresses, a few strands would fly up, charged with static. After several minutes of this, Blair broke the silence. 

"Did I tell you I got an email from Angie T?" 

"Who?" Jim's tone was curious. 

"You know, one of our list sibs. Her mom was in a car accident in Nebraska and she lives in Pennsylvania. She couldn't be there for her mom, so she asked everyone to keep them in our prayers and think good thoughts." 

"Oh, yeah. I sent her a message. Did you?" 

"Uh-huh. Anyway, she wrote today. Wanted to let everyone know how her mom is doing. And she wrote a PWP as thanks to everyone who sent email to her." 

"A PWP, huh? I didn't know she _could_ write something without a plot." 

"Evidently, she can. Anyway, her mom is doing better. She had surgery to repair both ankles and her right wrist. She is on oxygen because the anesthesia for the surgery aggravated the pneumonia she got after her shoulder surgery in January. But she is improving. She may be allowed to leave the hospital by the next week." 

"Will she be going home, then?" 

"No. Unfortunately Angie's step-dad has a bad back and severe diabetes. He can hardly care for himself, so there is no way he can care for someone who is bound to a wheelchair. They live in a tiny little town that doesn't have an assisted living facility. So she is going to be staying in the nursing home there for a while." 

"Nursing home? How old is she?" 

"She's in her fifties. The ironic thing is that the nursing home is where she was working when she injured her shoulder in November. You know, the one she had surgery on before? So her co-workers will be the ones caring for her and she already knows everyone there." 

"That's something anyway." 

"Yeah... hmmmm... that feels so nice. Thanks, love." 

"You're welcome. Want to read that PWP together?" 

"Hey, yeah..." Blair leered up at Jim. "I printed it off." He stood and dug the papers out of a folder on the coffee table. 

" A Mind of Their Own? Looks pretty short anyway." 

They read it together. Blair looked up at Jim. 

"Getting any ideas, Detective?" 

"In the mood for a shoulder rub, Professor?" Jim countered. 

"Oh, _yeah_!" 

<<fade to black>>

Angie 

* * *

End The Sixty-fourth Sentinel Tidbits File. 

 


End file.
